Bud Flud hadn't started the day expecting to die.

But here he was.

He might have deserved it. After all, he was about to put poison into a vat of drinking water when he did. He'd only made the water musty or goopy, before. This could have killed people.

But then, he'd been found out. That clown clad in purple had stormed up to him, spouting off scarily accurate accusations. He'd pointed fingers, and Bud had been ping-ponged between him and the muscle he'd brought along.

And then he'd leaned back over the railing when a finger got a little too close to poking him in the face.

And he'd overbalanced, not taking the weight of the canister in his hands into account.

And now he was falling, falling, falling as his last sight was the same accusing fingers opening to catch him, and a face of confusion, then fear.

And now he was under the poisoned water.

He reminded himself not to breathe. To not even open his mouth until he was above the water and had cleared off the poison. He could survive this, he just had to get to the surface—

But then something was happening. It started as a tingling as he rushed to the surface, struggling to get to air. And then the pain had set in.

And he couldn't stop himself from opening his mouth to scream. It was like every single bee sting, every single thorn, every single tack he'd ever had in his skin was back, and it was tearing him apart in the process. He felt bits of himself start to fall off, dissolve.

He finally broke the surface, coughing and sputtering as he felt the tingling start in on his throat.

"Please! Help, please, I'm melting!" he was begging, desperate. He couldn't stand it, he knew his feet were gone, his clothes were going, and something vital could be next. He could barely think, and he wasn't sure what he said.

The man in purple was moving toward him, but his eyes weren't working right, everything was fuzzy— the water was like acid, no, it was acid, and Bud tried to say so, but he wasn't sure if he managed to before he was pulled under by a lack of propulsion, his legs gone, only hearing a mumble of sound from the duck who had practically pushed him off the catwalk. Something like "We're coming," or "Don't worry," or something more callous, like "Quit crying, you big baby, it's just water."

Either way, everything was going dark, and Bud couldn't feel his fingers anymore, and the pain was working its way through his head, through his torso, and he was dissolving…

And he was gone.


Fizz, really.

Something bubbled up, through, throwing itself over the side of the vat of water-turned-acid. It heaved, like it was trying to remove itself from itself, but it quickly stopped.

Bud Flud was… alive?

That couldn't be right, he felt himself melting, dissolving…

He shuddered, and kept shuddering at the sensation of it, like he was made of incredibly watery jello, like he had no bones anymore.

He finally got ahold of himself, finally was able to clarify what he was and wasn't, who he was, and so on. That was good— the melting must have been some sort of hallucination, some side effect of the poison. He must have processed it quickly.

So then, where was the man who called himself a hero? That duck and his sidekick would have stayed to help, but Bud didn't even hear the faint sound of an ambulance that they would have called. He decided to glance down at his wrist to check the time, because surely even someone who just left him to drown couldn't have left that quickly.

And then he nearly tossed himself back into the vat in surprise.

His arm wasn't his arm anymore.

It was more a memory of an arm, sculpted in water, held together like jello but still flowing.

Bud was about to hyperventilate, only to realize he didn't have lungs anymore. Instead, he sort of burbled quickly.

This… couldn't be happening. Could it? Surely this was just part of the hallucination.

But then he was looking back into the vat of water, still bubbling acid, and he felt his nonexistent heart drop into his lack of stomach.

Had he… really melted?

Had he dissolved into the water until he was apart of it? Just liquid?

After deciding to not come to a conclusion, he tried to stand up. It was wobbly, and felt like he was trying to support himself without muscles, but he finally managed to get a hang on the flowing sensation, moving it up so that he was leaning against the vat he'd just pulled himself out of.

With a quick glance around his surroundings, he realized he'd landed on some sort of spongey mat in front of the vat, possibly to keep water from dripping to lower levels and rust the less waterproof catwalks.

He wobbled a bit, and nearly slipped through, but he managed to step onto the latticed catwalk, and start up towards the exit. Surely someone could help him, he could find a way to turn back…

He paused at that thought. Maybe something wasn't firing right yet, but he suddenly wondered why he had to turn back. He definitely felt better than he had in a long time, and with every step he took, he could think of more ways to use this new form than you could shake a stick at. Sure, not all of them would work, probably, but this was a sort of… brainstorming stage, you could say. The salesman in him suddenly had a lot of ideas.

Well. Maybe changing back could wait, and who even knew if it was possible? And maybe he could get revenge on the duck that pushed him in… what was his name? Oh yeah, Darkwing Duck. Ha, more like Dipwing Duck.

A strange sensation crawled across what could now be taken as his face. A smile. Oh yes, this felt good. It felt right.

Now he just needed a brand name.

And perhaps, he had some ideas about that… Bud Flud was a good, ironic pun now, but he wanted to rebrand, really. Might as well, new look, new name.

Hmm… Water Master… the Liquid Leader… the Liquidator.

He felt what you could call the grin crawl even wider.

Oh, brainstorming and revenge put together felt good.